


The Self is a Being Seperate From the Body

by Penser_Trop



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Anne Lister has passed away, F/F, Improper treatment, Mentions of Death, One-sided pining, Rough handling, Victorian hospital, hurt without comfort, mentions of medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 03:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21403156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penser_Trop/pseuds/Penser_Trop
Summary: A detailing of what happened to Ms. Walker following the passing of Ms. Lister.
Relationships: Anne Lister (1791-1840)/Ann Walker (1803-1854)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	The Self is a Being Seperate From the Body

She takes the medicine reluctantly, swallowing down the bitter liquid when the metal spoon is pushed to her lips. She never parts them more than necessary; some mornings are better than others.

When the air of sleep is thick around her and she forgets everything. Who she was, where she is, what will eventually come to be of her. It’s easy to forget all when consciousness has barely come to her.

Other times are more difficult. When she could’ve sworn she’d seen familiar features, heard that voice she had longed for so badly. Those times the typical, feeble nurse, wouldn’t come, but other, strange ones with thick arms and an air of indifference. One to hold her there when the tears came. To force her away from the window. To put a hand across her mouth when the cries rang through the hallway. To silence the mutterings of Biblical passages she clung to when no one else was there.

They’d hold her there until the second dose of medicine kicked in - one they’d jam down her throat with a vice-like grip that would force her lips apart. By then, her head would be light; hazy like the rolling morning fog across the grounds. Her body would grow lax as it lolled back into the chair, and the thick armed nurses would loosen their hold. “There,” they’d say, always so pleased with themselves.

She’d sit there for the rest of the day, away from the window, just within the watch of a nurse’s station. The books and periodicals they’d placed on the side table would mostly go untouched, save for the occasional running of her finger tip over the side of the pages.

Books always reminded her too much of things she’d rather forget. Of books in Latin, Greek, French, Hebrew. Of crypt hand in personally bound books. Of spilt black ink; the paper wet and folded with fallen tears.

She wanted to forget; she really did. But at the same time, to forget was to betray Her and everything She stood for.

To forget was to spit directly in the face of openness and acceptance that, while so against the manner that God held himself in, spoke of a nature that was so unapologetic; so honest.

That was never anything she would find again behind these locked doors and barred windows. She would never see that face again as She lay buried 6 feet under.

Upon arrival to the hospital, the staff members took all items that were uniquely hers; to return upon her exit from this place. That, of course, was never likely to happen. While women were funneled in, there only seemed to be one way of departure - every person’s inevitable passing.

They had locked away her slippers, petticoats, gowns. That silver locket she kept on a chain beside a pocket watch that contained a lock of thick, dark brown hair fixed by a satin black ribbon. All to never be seen again. They lay in a locked cabinet amongst a pile of other patient’s belongings; safe from dust and fading from the sun, but also away from everything that gave it meaning in the first place.

After all, what was a pile of things without an owner to give it purpose in the first place?

Here, she was nothing but a ghost. Outfit with the promise of curing the hysteria, the neuroticism, the doctors kept her here away from the outside world. She lost her color, her purpose, the manner of holding herself, the uniqueness of her own voice. She drifted alongside the daily repetition, ignored.

This is how she lived out the rest of her life - as a breath of her former being. Nothing more than a shadow.

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically the second story in which I detail the treatment of Ann Walker after the death of Lister. I'm not sure why, but there is always something so interesting about it. Perhaps it is my way of coping. 
> 
> If this was an interesting read, the other fic is 'I Dreamt That You Were Still Here,' same author. 
> 
> Thank you so much for stopping by.


End file.
